An Unexpected Turn of Events
by PemberleyFan
Summary: Mr. Bennet outlives his wife and must work out a new life for himself as he follows this unexpected turn of events. Sequel to Persistent Pursuit and Love's Fool: The Taming of Lydia Bennet. Yes, we will get to see Elizabeth, Jane, and of course Lydia!
1. Chapter 1

**Dear Readers: This story has to be read in the context of **_**Mr. Darcy's Persistent Pursuit**_** and **_**Love's Fool: The Taming of Lydia Bennet**_**. To bring you up to speed, Elizabeth and Jane have married Darcy and Bingley, and Lydia ended up marrying Jonathon Fret, who managed to turn her into a responsible and caring human being. This story line, which will be all about Mr. Bennet, was suggested to me by a friend, and even though I am still writing One False Step, Mr. Benent just would not let me put it aside. So here goes. I hope you enjoy! -Elaine Owen**

The very thing Mrs. Bennet had spent most of her adult years avoiding finally came true, but in an unexpected form. Mr. Bennet had the great good fortune of outliving his wife.

In the end, her nerves, which had long been Mr. Bennet's good friends, became her downfall as she succumbed to an apoplectic fit.

None of her children were at home to see the sad event. Jane was with her Mr. Bingley at The Vinings and came rushing to his side with appropriate speed, accompanied by her husband, and Elizabeth came with Darcy at the same time. Mrs. Bennet had certainly chosen a convenient time to die from their standpoint, since the Darcy's had been visiting the Bingley's at the time, and so the sad announcement could be made with great expediency in their case.

It was nearly as convenient for Kitty and her Mr. Masterson, at their small estate, Hazelton. Mary was with Kitty when the special messenger made his announcement, and for a full minute even Mary could think of no comforting platitudes to offer. They stood together in shock, and then Kitty began wailing, Mr. Masterson began directing the servants to pack at once, and Mary resumed her seat at the tea table, determined that it would be a waste to lose perfectly good scones even at a time like this. She did, however, pause for a moment to offer a private prayer for the repose of her mother's soul. A fterwards, she packed.

Lydia, influenced by her military husband, had the most practical approach. The messenger had not long been at Godfrey House when he was dispatched back to Longbourn with a business-like missive. Did Mr. Bennet want them to come at once? If he did, how did he plan to house his five daughters, their husbands, their children, and their servants? Would it be best if they planned on taking rooms at the inn in Meryton, or did Aunt Phillips perhaps have accommodations for some of them? Had he had time yet to arrange for poor Mrs. Bennet's services? Please reply at once, she said, so that they could make the necessary arrangements.

No children, Mr. Bennet said by quick reply. He wanted none of the grandchildren present to aggravate his own nerves at such a time. Arrangements had already been made and the services would be carried out as soon as all of Mrs. Bennet's five daughters could be present. As for accommodations, he really did not care where they stayed so long as they stayed out of his way. He told them to make whatever arrangements pleased themselves. The said daughters made their way to Longbourn with all appropriate speed, accompanied by their appropriately supportive husbands, and services were carried out in due course.

Mr. and Mrs. Collins were present at the services. Mr. Collins would lose no opportunity to comfort where comfort was not wanted or needed, and he prevailed on his newly bereaved cousin tediously, until Mrs. Fret threatened him with bodily harm if he said another word. Collins was, to be honest, slightly disappointed. It was the duty of Mr. Bennet to predecease his wife, was it not? Had history followed its divine order, Mr. Bennet would have died first and he himself would now be in de facto possession of Longbourn. Instead it looked like he would have to keep on waiting for what should have rightfully been his already. He would return to Hunsford with ideas for multiple sermons on the vengeance of a divine being.

Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were present, along with Mrs. Gardiner, who was now a widow herself. She comforted her nieces as best she could and was comforted by them in return. Mrs. Phillips comforted _herself_ by looking at the well to do husbands of her nieces and imagining the pin money they all enjoyed, and wondering how generously they shared their wealth.

It was a successful funeral, if such functions can be measured as successful or not. The minister spoke with touching eloquence on the life of Fanny Bennet and afterwards, her friends and relatives spoke movingly of how much they would miss her. She had been, they all said, a most devoted and attentive neighbor, eager to participate in the life of the community, concerned for the good marriages of her daughters (in which she had succeeded marvelously in four out of five cases), and a steady and loyal companion to her husband to the end. In other words, the usual kinds of falsehoods were told and accepted without question at Fanny Bennet's funeral.

Afterwards, all the Bennet daughters and their matching husbands sat around the dining room table at Longbourn with their newly widowed father and made plans. It was not long, just a few weeks, before those plans were carried out, and a messenger of a very different sort was sent to the Collinses. Mr. Collins repaired speedily to Longbourn, gratified that divine providence had chosen to smile on him after all, though perhaps not as kindly as he had first hoped.

Longbourn would be let to Mr. Collins, the house and surrounding properties together, for a very small fee each year. The small fee was so small that Mr. Bennet wondered why he bothered charging Collins anything at all. He certainly did not need the money. He and Mary would be well supported by his married daughters and would spend a portion of their time in each of their households by turn in the upcoming years. But it was the principle of the thing-Collins should not receive for free what could not be truly his for, hopefully, a number of years yet. Accordingly, the contract was drawn up and signed, and Mr. Collins prepared to take possession of Longbourn in just under a month's time, which made him smile with happy anticipation. The parsonage was beginning to be a bit cramped for him, Mrs. Collins, and their three children, and even he had begun to tire of constantly dancing attendance on the ever imperious Lady Catherine. It was time for a change.

And so Mr. Bennet stood in the graveyard at Longbourn church one dreary November day. In the distance he could see the carts and carriages hired by Mr. Collins, transporting his family's possessions to Longbourn's back door. He himself had left through the front door not half an hour previous, his own few possessions having preceded him only a short while before.

He stood with hat in hand for a few minutes, contemplating the grave of one Fanny Bennet. His contemplations were not all pleasant. He had held little affection for Fanny, but he had held some, and there was a part of himself that felt he had let her down by being the one to outlive the other. It was not the natural order of things, or so he felt. He ought to have been a better husband to her when she was alive, he thought, so that she might have been a better mother to their children. He ought at least to have passed before she did, so that she could have enjoyed the life he would now have with his various children, a life she would no doubt have enjoyed more thoroughly than he would.

But what was done was done, and could not well be undone. He said a quick prayer, replaced his hat on his head, and began to turn away from the grave that was already beginning to fill in with grass and leaves. But before he left, he placed his hand on the new placed gravestone and caressed it briefly, remembering the first days of his marriage with Fanny. Then he strode away, mounted the stairs that had been placed before the carriage with an ornate D engraved on the side, and rode away from Longbourn forever.


	2. Chapter 2

The first months of his widowhood proceeded more or less as he had expected, if he had had the opportunity to expect anything at all.

From November until March he lived at Pemberley, with Elizabeth, Darcy, and their three children, in a suite of rooms in the family wing of the sprawling mansion. It was not the same suite he had shared with Mrs. Bennet whenever they had made their visits to their second, and wealthiest, daughter. Mr. Bennet had the uncomfortable feeling that Elizabeth was going out of her way to do nothing that might possibly remind him of the dearly departed, and lodging him in a different room than previous was one evidence of this effort.

He and Fanny had never stayed at Pemberley for such an extended period before, and after the initial novelty was past, Thomas (for such was his Christian name) found himself at a bit of a loss for activity. It was an unusually cold winter, with frequent heavy snows, and so the hunting parties he might have joined in the neighborhood did not materialize. With outdoors activities severely limited, he tried in vain to entertain himself indoors instead.

His first thought was his oldest grandson, a handsome ten year old named for his father whose lively nature reminded him of Elizabeth at the same age. He would fain sit with the boy and discuss favorite novels, as he had once done with the boy's mother, but the chances for these discussions were few and far between. Young Fitz was in the school room much of the time, and when he wasn't there, then he was assisting his father and learning about estate matters. His education would certainly lack for nothing, Thomas grudgingly admitted, for the elder Darcy was strict about his son's attendance to duty. Probably too strict, Thomas would have said if he had been asked, but since nobody asked, he sighed and tried instead to speak with the younger children. But their constant exuberance grated on his nerves and he tolerated them only for short periods of time.

Time with Elizabeth was also in short supply. He approached her many times for a discussion of their favorite topics, and she was always very pleasant, very accommodating, and very busy. One of the children needed her, or else she was required at a neighbor's home on a matter of great importance. She did find the time to tell him that she was once again _enceinte_, and then talk turned to babies, midwives, nurseries, etc. He listened politely to her excitement but found that he could not share it. He felt, at the age of fifty and six, utterly exhausted, drawn out, like jam spread too thinly over a piece of bread.

Darcy himself was everything polite and accommodating, and when he had time for Mr. Bennet, they enjoyed a game or two of billiards together. But these times were not often enough to stimulate his interest in staying past the agreed upon departure date of Lady Day, in late March, when he would go to be with Jane and Bingley.

He often found himself sitting with Darcy and Elizabeth, and perhaps a guest or two, at the dinner table, trying to listen with polite interest while they discussed whatever the subject of the day was. The current trend towards more and more mechanization of labor was a favorite topic. Darcy and Elizabeth held very different opinions on the subject.

"It is the way of the future," Darcy told his wife one evening, "and I believe that investing a bit in certain well placed factories, close to good roads, might be beneficial for our holdings. I have directed my business manager to find well-run factories that meet certain parameters we laid out together, for consideration of capital."

"The new factories certainly make more product in a shorter time, but machines cannot replace the human touch. There is a chilling coldness in holding a piece of scarf that is exactly identical to at least a thousand others in the country, knowing that what you hold is not unique to you at all, but simply one of many things that are totally indistinguishable from each other. I much prefer a scarf hand made for me with love by one of my sisters, than a score made by a faceless machine."

"Efficiency has its own beauty," her husband responded. "If those scarves can made by machine, they can be made not only more rapidly and in greater quantity, but at a far lower cost, making such goods accessible to people of varying statuses. It is a quite an egalitarian concept, a great equalizer, would you not agree, Mr. Bennet?"

"Equalizing by making all the same!" Elizabeth protested. "By taking away all individuality and all charm! I do not find that agreeable at all, and I am certain papa would not either."

Here, both husband and wife stopped and looked at Thomas expectantly. He looked back at them, feeling somehow that he had lost the thread of the conversation. An answer was expected, but he could not quite recall the exact subject of the discussion. "I was just thinking, Lizzie, of the lemon tarts Mrs. Hill used to make of a Sunday. Each was a vision of perfection on its own, were they not? Each one different, and every one of them so delightful to the taste." He smiled gently at her.

Elizabeth hesitated briefly before patting his hand and smiling affectionately, and she and Darcy exchanged a look. The next day there were lemon tarts at tea.

But later, in making his way through a less-familiar passage of the far flung corridors, he chanced to overhear part of a low conversation between Elizabeth and Darcy, where he himself was the subject of conversation.

"-more interested in the children," he heard Elizabeth say. "It would help him if he could find a way to be more outgoing with them, more able to listen to their little stories and tell them some in return. And they would enjoy that so much."

"It is not in his nature, my dear," Darcy's deep voice answered. "It is often difficult, for people his age, to accommodate themselves to the noise and activity that little ones bring. He is doing the best he can, you must be patient. He will find his place here sooner or later. He has only been widowed for four months."

"Can you not find more opportunities to spend time with him? I know he enjoys your company so much, and I have not been as available as I would like, with the illness of the new baby on me."

"I will clear my schedule tomorrow afternoon, if Porter can do without my presence for the inspection of the fence repairs."

By this Thomas determined that Elizabeth was worried about him, and that he was generally thought not to be finding his way in his new life.

He realized with a start one afternoon that he even missed Mrs. Bennet, however slightly. She had not been a great comfort to him, but she had at least been familiar, and he would appreciate anything familiar in this new life.

He spoke abruptly to Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, when she entered the library later that same day. He was trying desperately to read a book he had at one time found interesting, and was now discovering that he could read it upside down just as effectively as right side up, for all the good he was getting out of it. Mrs. Reynolds entered the room to replace worn down candles in the various lamps, and he watched her in silence for two minutes before asking her, "You are also a widow, are you not?"

Mrs. Reynolds looked at him in surprise—as well she should, since he had rarely spoken to her before, and not at all on this day. "Yes, sir, I have been a widow for five years."

"And any children? Do you have any focus to your day, other than your work here?"

"My William is eight years old, sir. He gives me the greatest of joy. I do not know what I should do without him. I thought to die myself, when I lost his father."

"And how did you re-order your life? How did you find the pattern of your days changed, and then made new again, after such a loss?"

"They were not greatly altered. I had already been the housekeeper here, and I continued in that same way. My greatest change was that, instead of retiring to my husband and child each night, I retired only to my son."

"It must be pleasant, to have someone who still needs you. It must be very agreeable to know that your presence in the world still makes a difference to at least one other person."

Mrs. Reynolds observed him in silence for a moment.

"Very well, Mrs. Reynolds, you may go. Your work here is done," he said, and waved his hand dismissively.

"You will find your place eventually," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Please do give yourself some time, sir. And I think you will discover that a change of scenery, and a generally new outlook, may do you much good." So saying, she curtsied and left the room, causing him to look thoughtfully after her.


	3. Chapter 3

The very next day was the day appointed for him to join Jane and Bingley at The Vinings, eight and twenty miles from Pemberley, and an oversized carriage without any ornate family emblem on the door arrived promptly to take him to his destination.

Jane and Bingley were both waiting for him when the carriage stopped, but first he had to wait for a few moments after the door was opened, before the steps were properly put in place. As he alighted, his granddaughters Sophie and Anne physically attacked his legs, wrapping their arms around them and exclaiming in joy until their mother made them stop. Jane embraced her father, Bingley shook his hand warmly, and he was brought inside with a real feeling of family togetherness.

The Vinings was nowhere near the size of Pemberley, of course, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had usually met with the Bingleys while they all visited Pemberley together. It had been several years, in fact, since he had seen The Vinings at all. Therefore Thomas looked about him curiously to revisit details which had grown blurred in his mind. All seemed as lively and prosperous as ever. The same soft pink rose bushes, favorites of Jane, grew in the front of the house—Thomas remembered that Fanny had often exclaimed over them, and wished that she had some just like them at Longbourn. The ivy vines which gave the house its name still overgrew the walls of both the house and stable, and the shutters around the windows still showed their accustomed dull blue paint. Nothing here had changed.

He was rather astounded by the number of servants who had come to meet him. He counted them once, and then counted them again. Were there really seven maids and five footmen in attendance at the house when the Bennets had last visited? Certainly Fanny could have told him. She had known the exact number of domestic help available in all of her married daughter's homes, and regaled her friends and neighbors with that number endlessly when she could. But he himself could not seem to recall. All of them greeted him respectfully and he nodded at each in return, wondering what work was being done in the house, to necessitate such a staff.

Inside the parlor he distributed the gifts sent by the Darcys to everyone—a letter from Elizabeth to Jane, part of her weekly correspondence, along with a pair of gloves, and a book on crop rotation from Darcy to Bingley. He also had sweetmeats for the two oldest children, who took them from his hand and ran off without a curtsey or a word of thanks, while Jane apologized for their excitement. Elizabeth had also sent a new gown for the youngest Bingley, Fanny, just two months old and sleeping soundly in the nursery through all the noise of his arrival.

Thomas was to become accustomed to hearing Jane's apologies over the next few weeks, to the point that it became almost wearisome. It seemed that there was a great deal she had to apologize for.

Sophie and Anne were generally the first cause of apologies in the morning, and often the last cause in the evening as well, for the Bingleys either could not or would not make them behave in a way befitting children of ten years and six years of age. Mr. Bennet quickly became accustomed to the children joining in the conversation of the adults around them whenever they chose, whether they had been invited or not. If he sat quietly in the parlor with Jane while she held her infant, they were sure to run in to show her some childish treasure they had found outside, without asking leave first. If he walked with Bingley outside, discussing the addition of a well-house to the property, they were sure to play a mad game of tag around his feet, laughing and yelling at each other so much that Thomas could not understand a word Bingley had said. In short, he thought, they were the most delightful, affectionate, and thoroughly undisciplined children he had seen in some time.

The servants, too, were a source of many apologies, and at first Thomas was at a loss to understand why. There were certainly enough of them to maintain a small garrison in good order, if they had understood their work and done it with a good will. But they did not. It appeared to Thomas that Jane did many things that rightfully should have been carried out by the servants themselves, and since she was only one person, there were some tasks that were not carried out at all. Thomas accepted his daughter's regrets for the occasional lack of fresh water in the wash basin of his room, for the heavy layer of mud that built up on his shoes and was never removed, and even for the dirty linens that should have been cleaned, but came back almost as dirty as before.

And where was Bingley in all of this, he wondered. He was the husband and father of the home; why did he not intervene? Surely he could see what needed to be done? But if Bingley noticed these irregularities, he gave no sign of it.

A week after his arrival, Thomas was surprised to be interrupted while he was sitting in Bingley's study, translating a passage of Homer's Odyssey into English for the sheer challenge of it, and avoiding the sounds of Sophie and Anne playing battledore and shuttlecock in the drawing room. Jane, he supposed, was in the nursery with Fanny. Bingley entered the study with his steward, followed by the household servants, and Thomas realized that they were there for the first quarter day, to receive their wages. But it was remarkably late—Lady Day had been seven days past. He wondered at the delay.

Bingley now approached Mr. Bennet and asked, if it was not too much trouble, and if it did not cause him any inconvenience, could he please have the use of the desk where Mr. Bennet now sat, in order to have room to look at his account book and settle up with his staff? Thomas nodded and moved aside gladly, wondering at his son in law's diffident, anxious matter. He determined to watch and learn what he could.

Bingley opened the ledger that his steward, Peters, gave him, and fluttered through the pages nervously until he came to the last rows of entries, which he sat studying carefully for a brief time. At length he addressed Peters:

"Are all the servants accounted for? This includes both the household staff and the gardeners, the groomsmen, and whatnot?" His tone was rather vague.

Peters nodded, and Thomas wondered exactly how many servants Bingley employed. Did Bingley himself even know?

"And these wages—they are the usual amounts?"

"Plus the generous addition that you normally make," Peters answered. Bingley responded in his usual affable way.

"It is nothing, nothing at all. I am very glad to be able to do something for each of them, and it is certain that they have all earned their wages, and more besides. It is the very least any man can do, to care for the ones who care for him and his family. It is, indeed, a gentleman's obligation."

A general nod and murmur of approval came from the direction of the assembled servants, and Bingley looked at them with a pleased expression. "Well, if all is in order, then let us begin. I apologize for the delay in distributing your wages, but there were some little matters that had to be made right before we could proceed. I thank you for your patience."

Nobody objected, and the servants were called forward one by one. Bingley greeted each one, said a word or two of appreciation for their labor, and then counted out their wages into their hand. Thomas noted that Bingley was, indeed, a most generous employer. No wonder the servants were content to wait an extra week, with such amounts to enjoy later!

When the little ceremony was over, and Peters had retreated to some unknown place with the account book, Bingley recalled Mr. Bennet's presence and offered him a glass of port. They drank to each other's health, and then Thomas asked, "Was there a reason for the delay in settling up for the quarter, Bingley?"

Bingley smiled in his usual genial way, but Thomas thought he saw a troubled expression in his eyes for a moment. "Nothing so terribly unusual. Peters had a bit of a family emergency and had to be gone several days last week. We could not settle up properly until today."

"A family emergency? Somebody sick, I take it?"

"His mother," Bingley answered. "Her illness often occurs at this time of year."

"And the tenants, I suppose, are as regular as ever in their payments? No problems collecting?"

"I believe all is as it should be." He took a last sip of port and set the empty glass down on the desk. "I am quite certain that everything is at it should be, indeed." So saying, he left the study without another word.

Thomas recalled the scene the next day while he walked around the garden, trailed by Sophie and Anne and their ever-indulgent governess, and noted many things he had seen, but had not really looked at before. The same kinds of issues that afflicted the inside of the house were reflected on the outside of it. Jane's favored pale pink rose bushes were overgrown with weeds already, barely into April, despite the presence of at least two gardeners. The vines which had seemed so attractive to him at first as they curled up the side of the house were likewise overgrown, beginning to cover up a window or two on the second story and threatening several more. And the dull blue paint of the shutters was beyond dull—it was in need of being completely done over.

Thomas had liked to say, over the years, that Jane and Bingley were so complying that nothing would ever be resolved on, and so easy that every servant would cheat them. Was that the problem in the home? Were their inherently kind, easy going natures the source of the general neglect? He wondered if his jesting words had in fact been prophetic.

He asked the staff a few random questions in an off-hand way, and had at least one of his suspicions confirmed. Most of the servants in the house were related to each other, and at least half had been hired after a relative already in service had plied a tale of woe on Jane or Bingley, or both. Their wages, too, were far and away higher than was customary in that area of the country, and Thomas could see for himself that neither of the Bingleys had the resolve necessary to hold their employees accountable for the work that was not done, or that was done poorly.

A similar lack of resolve was on display with the children. Jane tried to curb their spirits and teach them proper manners, but with so many other demands on her attention her efforts were usually in vain. If she could have exerted herself to make the nurse or governess do their duty, things might have been different, but Jane had never prevailed on anyone in her life, and she was not likely to start now; neither was Bingley. And with neither master nor mistress able to really manage the staff, the staff managed themselves, but did not do much of anything else.

He saw much to concern him, but nothing that would justify interference. The Bingleys had already spent a decade together in marriage, and if they had not settled already how best to handle their household, then they likely never would. Thomas closed his eyes to what he could not change, tried not to stare at the children or the servants whenever they demonstrated the lack of leadership in the home, and became accustomed to rather muddy shoes, a very dusty parlor, and grandchildren whose enthusiasm occasionally put the more fragile items in the house into some danger.

Six weeks into his visit, he received a letter from Kitty. This by itself was unusual, for Kitty wrote seldom to anyone and hardly ever to him.

_Dear Papa,_

_I suppose you are very surprised to receive a letter from me, but I have exciting news to share with you, news which I believe might serve to raise your spirits at such a despairing time in your life._

Despairing time? Had Elizabeth been telling tales? Thomas felt this description was going a little far. He had been knocked off-center, perhaps, by Fanny's death and by leaving Longbourn. He had probably been a little depressed. But he was not in despair.

_My husband's brother Frederick, who is a clerk in a law office here in D-, has been regularly calling on us here at Hazelton for some time. But calling on us has been only an excuse, because to be truthful, he has been calling on Mary. In fact, he is courting her! I do not quite understand what he sees in my sister, but there is no accounting for taste. My Earnest believes that Frederick may have an important issue to discuss with you when you arrive. Frederick and their aunt, Miss Mabel Masterson (a most agreeable lady—I know you will enjoy her company), will be here in a fortnight and will stay several weeks, at which time we all plan on going together to their family home, there to stay until a certain happy event may take place._

A happy event was an entirely inadequate description for such an event as the possible marriage of Thomas' third, and most unlikely, daughter. Miraculous would be a better word to use, he thought. Thomas had never felt that Mary would ever be in any danger of being overwhelmed by suitors. Between her unremarkable physical appearance, her solemn, moralizing nature, and now her relatively advanced age of eight and twenty, an opportunity to for his daughter to settle permanently in her own home would indeed lift his spirits.

_I am simply wild for Frederick to make his addresses to Mary. I know she is my sister and she must live somewhere, but why must it be with us? We do have three other sisters after all. But now she is so changed! She has actually stopped quoting sermons at us is when Frederick is in the room, and you will not believe the eyes she makes at him! She flirts almost as much as Lydia used to!_

Thomas briefly tried to picture Mary in his mind, playing the coquette with a suitor, her eyes widening owlishly behind the impossibly thick lenses of her spectacles while she fluttered her eyelashes. It was only slightly easier than picturing an agreeable and intelligent Mr. Collins.

_And so I wish you might consider coming to us in a fortnight instead of a month, if Jane does not object to the change of plans. In this way our visit with you will still be cut a little short, but we can still pass several enjoyable weeks together before Mr. Masterson and I travel on. If this is acceptable please let us know right away, and we will send our carriage for you on the appointed day. Afterwards Lydia can send Fret's carriage for you, or you may return to The Vinings, whichever you like. But please do say that you will come in time to meet Frederick and Miss Mabel. I am_

_Your loving daughter,_

_Mrs. Catherine Masterson_

Mrs. Masterson had, since her marriage five years earlier, started to use her given name instead of Kitty. Not all the family had gracefully accepted the change. Thomas immediately penned a reply.

_If Mary and this Frederick Masterson are in love and wish to marry, they will not need my consent. But the idea of your sister in love is too entertaining to miss. You may expect me in a fortnight. I am_

_Your loving father,_

_Thomas Bennet_

_N.B. You may as well sign your letters Kitty, for as your mother never called you anything else, neither shall I._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary of Events so far: Mr. Bennet stays with Elizabeth and Darcy for a time after Mrs. Bennet's death, then goes to visit the Bingleys at their estate. After a stay of several weeks, and finding that the Bingleys are altogether too accommodating with their servants, he travels to Hazelton to visit Kitty and her husband, and also to find out more about Mary's suitor.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you to my faithful readers who are so willing to follow a story all about Mr. Bennet!-Elaine**

His fourth son in law was Earnest in both name and manner. Mr. Bennet had always thought so, and seeing him now gave him no reason to change his opinion.

Earnest Masterson, aged eight and twenty years, had a perpetually serious and inquiring air about him. The oldest of two brothers, he had always been intended to take over the family holdings upon reaching his majority, and Thomas was certain that young Earnest had taken on that role with dutiful enthusiasm at the earliest possible age. No doubt as a young lad he had been trailing about with his father, collecting rents and improving fields, for he gave every impression that he could perform every required chore on the estate, and other tasks as well, either in his sleep or with his eyes closed, whichever came first. By the age of twenty, Thomas knew, Earnest Masterson had been making all the significant decisions regarding the family holdings, and when his father died several years later, the property had transitioned to the new owner without anyone noticing much of a change.

By contrast Kitty was very much as her name sounded—superficially pretty, not bothered by too many serious thoughts in her head, and casually affectionate towards those who showed her even a passing affection of their own. She had been neither a terribly bad girl nor a terribly good girl, for to be either monstrously bad or monstrously good required a strength of will she did not have. Thomas was grateful that Earnest had inspired Kitty's affection and then somehow held it long enough to marry her, before she could be led astray by someone with a much worse character.

The couple had dutifully produced the required son, likewise named Earnest, just two years into their marriage. More children did not appear to be forthcoming.

Hazelton was located a full day's ride from The Vinings, and so when Thomas would leave again in three week's time he would have just under a day's journey to Godfrey House and the Frets. His children, he thought, had made travel between their homes as convenient as could be hoped for.

Earnest, Kitty and Mary were all on hand to greet him when the coach pulled up to the steps of Hazelton, and looking out the window of the coach, Thomas was gratified to see none of the neglect that had been so apparent at The Vinings. Each clapboard of the house was painted in an excruciating bright shade of white, each shutter was perfectly aligned outside its assigned window, and even the very pebbles of the road in front of the house seemed to have been raked into exquisite order. If a fly had dared to land on a dormer window it would no doubt have flown away immediately, disheartened by the lack of any visible sustenance.

Thomas greeted Earnest with a firm handshake, kissed Kitty, and nodded in Mary's general direction after she had curtsied to him, which seemed to be all she required from him. With this brief ritual completed, and after the customary inquiries about his travel, he was led into the house.

"I hope you will not mind your room, papa," Kitty told him as she led him upstairs. "It is the second largest spare room we have, and it is on the front of the house so that you can see out to the road whenever you want. Mary, of course, has the largest guest room of all. She is with us so much of the time, Earnest said she might as well have it as hers, so it is not even really a guest room any more. Frederick and Miss Mabel will be in rooms across from you when they come."

"Are they not here already? I thought I understood from your letter that they would be."

"They have had a slight delay. They will not arrive until the day after tomorrow."

Thomas' room was as clean and well-ordered as everything else he had already seen. A matching pitcher and bowl had been set out on his dresser at a precise angle to the towels alongside them. The pillows on the bed were plumped to an identical height, and even the curtains at the window seemed as though they would be reluctant to move out of their rigidly correct alignment. Not a speck of dirt or dust was to be seen anywhere. Either Earnest's zeal for utter perfection had rubbed off on his wife, or the Masterson's had hired the most fastidious housekeeper Thomas had ever seen.

"I say, Kitty, are you certain you wish to allow me to sleep in this room? I am afraid I might leave a stray hair on the pillow case, or commit some other mortal transgression in a room so clean."

"Don't be silly, papa," Kitty answered. "This is only a guest room, so it is used very little and hardly ever needs cleaning. And please do try to remember that my name is Catherine now, not Kitty."

Thomas harrumphed after Kitty, when she had left the room, and made a point of knocking the dirt off of his shoes as thoroughly as possible, and leaving them in the middle of the floor.

He did not see Mary, the object of his immediate curiosity, again until they all met at the table for the evening meal. It was an informal family dinner, with no guests besides himself. As the food was passed around he began to ask her about her suitor.

"Tell me about this Frederick Masterson of yours, Mary. Do you believe he compares favorably with your sister's husbands?"

"My brother recently took a position as a clerk in the law office of C-, in our little village." Earnest had answered instead of Mary. "He will serve the requisite number of years and then, probably, graduate to solicitor."

"He is well able to support a wife, then? And perhaps a family as well?" Thomas looked at Mary, but she was dishing potatoes onto her plate. She did not answer.

"He is more than able," Earnest replied again. "He has a promising career with an established concern, and he is diligent and hard working. You will be satisfied by him in every particular."

Thomas was still looking at Mary, waiting for her to join in the conversation, but she had not even glanced up from her plate. She seemed uninterested in adding her comments, even though the topic concerned her so particularly.

"Mary never wants to actually talk about Frederick," Kitty said in her complaining way, seeing her father's expression. "I suppose it is up to me to tell you that he is terribly clever, and quite handsome besides. His tutors could not praise him enough, and he finished at the top of his class. Really, Mary, you might speak up and say something about him yourself!"

Mary passed the potatoes on and finally deigned to answer coolly. "Mr. Masterson's intellect is stimulating, and I am sure he does his tutors much credit. But I believe my grasp of equity law, as opposed to statutory law, is superior to his understanding of those same topics."

Thomas raised an eyebrow as he looked first at Mary, then at Kitty.

"But Frederick is an exceedingly handsome gentleman, do you not agree?" Kitty prompted her sister again. "Though he is not as handsome as _my_ husband, yet he would do credit to any of my sister's husbands."

Mary considered this gravely. "His features appear to be correctly proportioned," she finally allowed. "They are not displeasing."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Lord, Mary, you are so droll!"

Despite Mary's disinterested tone, Thomas had noted an unusual gleam in her eye. "A superior understanding of statutory law," he commented, "and well-proportioned features? All of this in one man? He sounds like an ideal husband for our Mary, especially if she finds him not displeasing. I have scarcely ever heard a better recommendation for a life partner."

A slight flush had appeared on Mary's cheeks. "I do find his conversation highly educational," she added gravely, "and time spent with him is not a punishment."

"Better and better! There are few couples married today, I believe, who can say that time spent with their spouse is not a punishment."

Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Kitty broke in. "You need not be so missish, Mary. You are not a young girl any more. You may admit your true sentiments for the man whenever you want. We will not care, nor think you unmaidenly."

"Whatever sentiments I may feel are irrelevant. I have never relied too strongly on mere emotions as a foundation for decisions about my future. A strong intellect will carry one farther in life, and prove more practical, than mere sentimentality."

"Are you saying," Thomas asked, "that you intend to marry without any regard for romantic feelings whatsoever?"

"At my age, and considering my position in life," Mary answered, "I would be unwise to insist on waiting for someone who can completely inspire my affections. Nor do I find affection entirely necessary for marriage. Many couples who unite in a wave of passionate feelings later part company, or else make themselves miserable with disappointed hopes. Sentiment, it seems to me, can be as much a hindrance as a blessing. I hope I am never carried away by my feelings."

"I think you need not worry about _that_ overmuch," Thomas replied dryly, exchanging an expressive look with Earnest and Kitty. He let the subject drop, but he was not fooled by his daughter's cool manner and detached tone. There was a determined look in her eyes and a self-consciousness in her manner, different than what he had observed in her previously. He thought her feelings were probably engaged much more than she would ever admit to the rest of her family.

Kitty felt the same way. "I do not know why Mary talks that way," she told her father later, when they had a moment of privacy. "I promise you, papa, she is truly very different when Frederick is in the room. It is something you will have to see for yourself in order to believe. She is completely smitten with the man."

"If most women were to speak of their suitor the way your sister speaks of hers, we would think she held no affection for him at all. This being Mary, I think it is more likely that she is madly in love with him, and cannot bear to admit it."

"She will never admit to loving anything," Kitty said plaintively, "unless it is her books, or perhaps her music. What noise she makes on the instrument all day long! And she sings, too. I hope she will take the pianoforte with her when she goes, for we have no use for it."

Thomas considered this for a moment. "Is Frederick truly a sensible man? Will Mary be happy if she marries him?"

Kitty frowned. "Frederick is a scholar and she can speak intelligently with him. I think perhaps that is all she really requires."

"And he can truly support her and any children they might have, with what he earns as a clerk?"

"Earnest says that his income, together with Mary's marriage portion, will support them well, at least until he makes solicitor in a few years. _We_ will even help support them until that time, if need be. Oh Lord! To have her stop moralizing constantly in the house!"

Thomas nodded, satisfied, and decided that he would simply have to wait until the younger Mr. Masterson appeared in person before he could learn more of what he wished to know. No matter if Mary were attracted to his purse or his person; it was past time for her to be in a home of her own. Whether Mary held any affection for him or not, by all accounts he was an acceptable candidate for her hand, and if he did make an offer for her, then Thomas would be disposed to grant them his blessing.

Two days were spent in quiet enjoyment of Hazelton, with his daughters and son-in-law, and of course his grandson, who followed him about like the proverbial shadow, accompanied by his nurse. Little Earnest, just three years old, was every bit as determined and purposeful as his namesake, and besides this, he was blessedly quiet for one so young. Or perhaps it was simply that Thomas was enjoying the respite from the high-spirited Sophie and Anne.

He found great pleasure in going with both of the Earnests in walks around the small farm and attached fields, holding his grandson's hand while the elder Earnest spoke with tenants, measured the amount of topsoil on his fields, and considered where to dig a new well. Little Earnest looked trustingly up at his grandfather at the times when his father was most distracted, often handing him a small stone, a feather, or some other treasure he had just discovered. Thomas would gravely inspect the newest acquisition, make an appropriate comment in its praise, and then carefully return it to its owner, who beamed in pleasure. Looking into the child's face at such times, Thomas fancied that he saw his own features reflected there.

If only he and Fannie had had a son, he thought for the hundredth time, the entail would have been cut off by now. Fannie might not have been so nervous, so invariably silly, without the pressure of having to make good marriages for five daughters. The strain might not have taken such a toll on them both. And despite the unexpected turn of events, he himself would still be living at Longbourn instead of trying to find a new place in the world. The very thought of the verdant trees that surrounded Longbourn was enough to cause a sudden pang in his chest, and he pushed aside the image as quickly as possible.

On the third day of his visit, in the late afternoon, Thomas heard a conveyance of some kind approach the house while he was resting in his chambers. Daring to pull aside one of the curtains, he looked out in time to see a gig discharging a man and woman together on the front steps of Hazelton. These, he was sure, would be Frederick and Mabel Masterson. The angle of his view from the window did not allow for a clear view of either person except for the barest of outlines, and so he was left only to conjecture until dinner time, when they all met together, and he was proven correct.

Frederick Masterson was a man of medium height, with his brother's fair coloring and light eyes, but without the characteristic determined air of his elder sibling. He shook hands nervously with Thomas and smiled shyly at Mary from behind his own rather thick spectacles, but did not seem inclined to be a man of many words. He appeared to be somewhat younger than Mary, perhaps about four and twenty.

Miss Mabel, the maiden aunt of the Masterson family, was close to Thomas' own age, instead of being the ancient dowager he had expected. She had a refined, stately air that was occasionally belied by a musical laugh, and bright eyes set in a pleasing countenance.

Kitty asked her father to take Miss Mabel in to dinner, and he offered his arm without thinking much about it, concentrating more on observing Mary's mannerisms in the presence of her supposed lover than on the lady beside him. Mary had taken Frederick's arm rather eagerly, it appeared, and looked up at him with a smile he had never seen on her face before.

"I look forward to continuing our discussion of the works of Christopher Wren, Mr. Masterson," he heard Mary say, in a dulcet tone that was quite different than her usual heavy, pedantic manner.

"I have not found the information you asked me for," Frederick answered in hesitating tones. "I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint you."

"There is no need to apologize. I am sure you were most diligent in your efforts," Mary answered, again using the strange new tone of voice. She looked down for a moment, and then glanced back up at him again in a way that could only be described as coquettish. Thomas was momentarily frozen in shock. Had Mary really just fluttered her eyelashes, and actually _simpered_ at her young caller? He could scarcely believe his eyes.

"Perhaps after dinner, you would allow me to play a Mozart set for you instead," she offered.

Thomas saw Frederick swallow hard. "It would be my honor to listen to whatever you wish to play. And afterwards, we might talk about the venues in which equity law supersedes common law. You have a most stimulating intellect, Miss Bennet." The pair continued to stare at each other, lost to the rest of the room, until they entered the dining room together and were forced to separate in order to take their seats. Thomas followed them in without a word, but the look he gave Kitty spoke volumes on its own.

Dinner began in the customary way, with various plates making their appearance at the table. The general conversation in the group was light and concentrated, mostly, on the weather, road conditions, and other unimportant topics. Mary and Frederick were seated across the table from each other. No words were being exchanged between the two, but there were many long and eloquent speeches being expressed in their looks, and the fulsome display made Thomas wish to retire early. Lovers were of all things most tiresome, he had been known to say in the past, and he was tempted to say so again now. Instead, he was unexpectedly addressed by the lady he had escorted in to dinner.

"I have been given to understand that you are recently removed from your former home," Miss Mabel said to him, at a time when the conversation had begun to break into smaller groups. With a start, Thomas turned away observing from his daughter and made an effort to respond courteously to his dinner companion.

"Yes, it was called Longbourn, in Hertfordshire. You would never have heard of it, I am sure."

"You are mistaken. I have heard much of it from Mrs. Masterson. She speaks of it as the embodiment of all that is perfection."

"Does she indeed? I had no idea Kitty was so fond of the place."

"She has spoken of it so warmly, and with so much detail, that I can almost picture it in my mind. I feel as though I have been there myself."

Thomas gave a short laugh. "It is well that she did, for you would never have heard of it otherwise. It is not a famous home, and it has nothing to recommend it beyond the usual charms of a small country manor."

"On the contrary, I have been led to believe that for many years it was home to the Bennets of Hertfordshire; and for that reason, if no other, it must have had more than the usual charms."

These words, Thomas knew, were nothing more than the customary insincere flatteries of polite society, but he found his interest piqued all the same. He looked at her bemusedly. "Few people speak of the charms of the Bennets of Hertfordshire, madam. We have been known more for our absurdities than for our social graces."

Mabel smiled. "I see none of those absurdities on display here. I do not know all your daughters, of course, but Mrs. Masterson and Miss Mary have proven to be pleasant companions , and I am happy to have the honor of their acquaintance." She then turned to Earnest on her other side and began speaking to him, leaving Thomas more than a little curious about her.

He attended carefully to Mabel's conversation with Earnest for some time, waiting for an opening in the conversation, and discovered from their speech that she enjoyed reading. Earnest turned to speak to his brother, and Thomas saw his opportunity to engage her attention again. "Who is your favorite author, Miss Masterson?" he asked. "And do you have a favorite period of literature which particularly intrigues you?"

"I favor the writings of Johnson and Cowper, whenever I can get hold of them."

"No Radcliffe? I thought all women these days were reading Radcliffe whenever they could. They are perfectly mad for her; it is practically a disease."

"It is no disease with me," Mabel answered. "If I were so infected, I should want no cure other than to read some of Johnson's works to be entirely healed."

"And how does Johnson capture your attention so well? Surely you do not stay awake at night working through his dictionary?"

Mabel smiled again. "His Ramblers, I think, offer fine, stout food for the soul, and provoke one to introspective thinking. I should infinitely prefer this to the vain imaginings of ghouls and spirits haunting every corner, as Mrs. Radcliffe's works do. I am a student of the practical, not the fanciful."

The turn of her countenance as she uttered these words captured his attention. There was a look there that arrested his interest, and made him want to speak with her more, reminding him that it had been many years since he had enjoyed intelligent conversation with an unattached female anywhere near his age. He began to ask her opinions of other famous writers, and the rest of the dinner they spent very companionably comparing the relative merits of Johnson and Boswell. When they had to separate after dinner, Thomas found himself anxiously awaiting the time when the men might rejoin the ladies. He knew that it was not out of any desire to see more of either of his daughters, but only to enjoy one particular pair of bright eyes.

**Author's Note: All literature listed here was common and well-known among the gentry of Jane Austen's day. Likewise, an "articled" clerk would apprentice with an established solicitor for five years before practicing law in his own right.**


End file.
